‘Twas the night before Yule, and across all the landConstables watched carefully, not a corner unmannedFor they knew of a spirit that struck once a yearBound and determined, their mission was clear

Catch the solstice bandit whole stole from the richProve that he was human, not spector or witchSurely he was, despite the many tales of his deedsHe had done it all without a trace, at inhuman speeds

Yet they caught nothing as they searched aroundThe snow drifting silently, with no bandit to be foundQuiet, cold flurries brought an undisturbed dustAnd only once in a while was there a noticable gust

The trees whispered, their branches tall, dark, and highAnd there camouflaged against the black winter skyWas what seemed to be a flying, cloaked, hooded figureEluding the guards as he leapt quick and with vigor

On the second floor of a vast manor estateOne window remained lit, though it was lateBeatrice Barnet, daughter of a baron no lessA debutante beauty, was ignoring her rest

Watching the landscape from her window at midnightShe studied the snow drifts for the midwinter spriteYoung but a woman, with fair skin and dark eyesShe sat unaware of the shadow in disguise

So surprised was she then when a breeze prickled her neckThat quickly she turned and in the shadows she’d checkA black-clad form emerged and she gave such a gaspHer eyes opened wide with a candleabrum tightly agrasp

No sooner than that and he stood right before herAt her lips a finger pressed so she would not stirWith his hood fully drawn he placed a kiss on her cheekWhile slipping from her a bracelet, with unmatched technique

She held still the weapon, confused and blushingWhile the caper escaped, the freezing air rushingLight on his feet, with barely a soundHe danced over rooftops, never touching the ground

Quick as a robin, flitting in flightHooded and hidden, dark as the nightHe was out the window just as soon as he’d comeOff to redistribute small treasures with aplomb

So it is that the spector was witnessedNot quite Father Winter or a spirit of ChristmasDespite the crimes Myrken’s poorest still smileFor the food, toys, and tools earned from beguile